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Gee Spot Run 1/2
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
GEE SPOT RUN part 1 of 2 (or more)
by Sue
It all began a couple of weeks ago, when I was jogging in the park and ran
across my neighbor, Jane, as she was strolling on the wooded trails. I slowed
down to her leisurely pace, and tried to strike up a conversation as I caught
my breath from my vigorous workout. She and I have been friends in a sort of
light and social way, but the discussions that we have had have been mostly
about the weather, the neighborhood, politics, and the like. Nothing that
cuts through the layers of social veneer that shroud our deeper thoughts and
feelings, that make us feel both safe and lifeless. But today, Jane didn't
seem up for the usual small talk, so for a while we walked together in
silence, enjoying the crisp air of early winter. She was shy, and I knew from
visiting her home that she and her husband Dick were fairly straight-laced,
with a decidedly religious bent. They were always talking about how inspiring
Jerry Falwell was, and a few years ago, they had knocked on my door to
distribute "Pat Robertson for President" literature.
Eventually, I began to ask questions that steered the subject matter around
to what was on her mind. She didn't seem too comfortable with this line of
talk, but at the same time, she didn't shut down and pull away. It was clear
to me that there were things that she needed to say, but it was unfamiliar
territory for her. I tried to give her the space to let it out at it's own
pace, and I was genuinely supportive about the problems that she eventually
blurted out. We talked and walked for well over an hour, and to put in a
nutshell, she was bored and repressed. Her thoughts and feelings weren't in
exact correspondence with the traditions and teachings of her family and her
church, and she now felt trapped and helpless.
Of course, knowing me as many of you readers do, you can probably guess that
I wanted to know about their sex lives. It took a lot of subtle prodding, and
a lot of blushing on her part, but eventually we got around to the heart of
the matter, which was that her husband's idea of sex was a once-a-month,
tab-A-in-slot-B, lights-off session that had no spice, no feeling, and no
tenderness.... And for Jane, there was no orgasm. She had resorted to an
occasional masturbation, but she felt dirty and sneaky about it, so that
wasn't making her happy either. In fact, the whole situation was making her
feel distant from her husband, and ashamed that it was all her fault.
I know that this all sounds like such a classic, stereotypical situation, but
here was a real woman who was suffering through anxieties that felt familiar
and sad to me. So after hearing her out, I took the risk of revealing some
stuff about myself, things that I normally only talk about anonymously
through the Internet, or with my trusted lovers. I told her about my
fascination with erotica, and that I wrote stories based on my wildest
fantasies, which I posted on the 'Net for all to read. She had heard of the
alt.sex groups -- they had been reviled at length in her church groups. So
Jane was amazed that she was now talking to an active participant in such an
illicit activity, and that a woman would be involved. A woman that was that
"nice lady down the street," as she put it.
After getting over her shock, she asked me what kind of things I wrote about.
It was really a struggle for her to ask, and her face was inflamed with a
scarlet blush. I didn't want to scandalize her too much, so I just said that
I wrote about things that were kinky and graphic, but that I didn't get into
stuff that involved pain and humiliation. It was all for fun, a way to
explore my own flowering sexuality in a full and safe way. Now Jane's
embarrassment was abating, and she asked more and more detailed questions, so
that eventually, I offered to lend her the printouts of some of my stories.
At that point, we were back to the parking lot of the park, so we both drove
over to my house, where I handed over a stack of printouts for a couple of my
more tame erotic stories. The one on the top was "Craftsmanship." She touched
the white papers as if they were covered with germs. But when I suggested
that maybe she wasn't ready for this kind of stuff, she was unwilling to let
go. Still, I was worried about what the impact of my stories would be on her
fragile psyche, so I recommended that she sit and read for a bit to see if
she really wanted to take these home. She was kind of in a daze, so I took
Jane's hand and led her into the den where she could sit and relax in the
wing-back chair. I left her to look over the stories, giving her some privacy
while I went to take a shower; I needed to wash off the stale sweat that I
had generated while I was jogging, and I didn't think that Jane needed
someone looking over her shoulder just then.
It felt so good to let the spray of scalding hot water blast onto my
shoulders and back. Acting as Jane's mentor in her attempt to break out of
her marital jail was making me tense, so I just stood under the shower for 10
or 15 minutes. I let my hands trace lazy circles over my breasts, my tummy,
my thighs, and occasionally over the sparsely-furred mound of my cunt. But I
resisted the temptation to slide my finger into the furrow between my vulva.
I wanted to keep my focus on Jane and her problems, not become absorbed in
releasing my own sexual tension.
Finally, I stepped out of the shower, and toweled myself off briskly. I
wrapped my sopping hair into a towel turban, and then covered the rest of my
pink body in the wonderful polar fleece bathrobe that I had been given for
Christmas by my new friends at Victoria's Secrets. And I walked back toward
the den to check on my guest. I figured that by now Jane would have read
enough to have some questions for me. Or she would be ready to attack me for
my lewd and perverted thoughts. In fact it wouldn't have surprised me to
discover that Jane had fled to the safety of her car and her home. But when I
got to the door of the den, what I beheld was not anything that I had
anticipated. Instead, I discovered Jane with her head tipped back and her
eyes clenched tightly closed. She was slouched down deep into the soft
cushions and her legs were spread wide, knees angled outward. One of her
hands had crept up under the bottom of her white, flower-speckled turtleneck,
where it was cupping and squeezing one of her breasts. Her other hand had
insinuated itself under the elastic waistband of her tight pink stretch
pants. Through the taut fabric, I could see the outline of her fingers as
they extended down over the juncture of her thighs. The bumps of her knuckles
quivered as she prodded into the needy flesh. And a sustained, warbling hum
emanated from her throat.
I'm not sure what made her aware that was watching, but all of a sudden, Jane
opened her eyes, saw me, and let out a high-pitched little squeal. Her hands
whisked out of the confines of her clothes, and she folded them in her lap
demurely. "Oh, I'm so mortified," she said, "I can' believe that I got so out
of control. You must think I'm horrible." Jane looked like a child who had
been caught stealing candy, and she was clearly about to cry.
I wanted to reassure her that it was OK, so I closed the space between us and
kneeled down beside her chair, pulling her into my arms in a comforting
embrace. I could feel her kind of shaking in my arms, and her breathing was
ragged and rapid. I'm sure that this was because of the combination of the
sexual stimulation and the embarrassment. I let her be like that for a few
minutes, massaging the back of her neck and shoulders (her hands were still
clenched in her lap). When she had settled down, I let her go and rocked back
on my heels. We began to talk it all out. I assured her that her reaction to
reading my stories was completely normal. In fact, that is just the kind of
response that the stories were designed to get, so her losing control like
that was really a great compliment to me.
I told her "Even when I'm writing the stories, I get so turned-on sometimes
that I have to stop typing so that I can reach down and rub my cunt for a big
orgasm. And when I read other people's stories, I usually masturbate. I'm
sorry that you feel bad about what you were doing, and I'm even more sorry
that I interrupted you. So I'm going to leave the room again so that you can
finish what you started." And I stood up and started to turn around, when she
stopped me by asking "Please don't go yet... there is something that I wanted
to ask you about.... aaahh, I don't know how to say it, I'm not used to
talking about sex at all." She was blushing again (had she stopped at all in
the past two hours?), and her words were whispered and raspy. But she forced
herself to continue. "I'm not sure that I'm doing it right."
At first, I didn't know what she meant, and when I figured out that she meant
that she wasn't sure if she knew how to masturbate, my first response was to
say that it couldn't be possible, that every person knows how. But I caught
myself before those words left my lips, and instead I reassured her some
more, letting her know that everyone figures it out for themselves. "Practice
makes perfect, you know. Just figure out what works by experimenting." But
Jane persisted by telling me, "I guess I'm wondering about it because some of
the things that you talk about in your stories, well, I just don't get it.
Like I was just reading about this G spot thing. And I don't know what you're
talking about. I wish I knew what to do."
So I explained it to her, and then I guess I just decided to go for broke.
All this talk about sex was making me more and more bold. I said "If you show
me what it is that you are doing when you masturbate, maybe I can help you
figure it out." She was quiet for a few moments, as the prospect of going
ahead with my idea wormed its way past her ingrained defenses. I thought for
sure that she would turn me down, but again, Jane surprised me by saying "I
can't believe I'm saying this, but... I guess I could do that, but only if
you do it too. I want to see how you masturbate, and you could show me how
you do your G spot."
Well, I'm normally not into having sex with just a woman. That just isn't my
thing, or it hasn't been in the past, anyway. But this was different. I
wasn't going to be actually touching her. It was more like "I'll show you
mine if you show me yours." And I was certainly ready to masturbate, after
hours of various kinds of mild stimulation. I was also very curious to see
what Jane would do with herself. It was hard to remember back to when I was
learning how to please myself. So I agreed.
Jane stood up and I could see that she was a bit shaky on her feet, sort of
drunken with the reality of what she was about to do. I asked her to take off
her stretch pants, and after she hooked her thumbs into the waistband, she
hesitated for a few seconds, then stripped the pants down to her ankles in
one fast push. She almost fell over as she stepped out of them. Straightening
up, I saw that she was wearing the most chaste white cotton panties. Her
hands crossed in front of her cunt, like fig leaves. But she finally let her
arms relax and her hands fell to her sides. Not surprisingly, the crotch
panel of her panties was dark and moist with the stain her secretions. She
was frozen in that position, until I asked her if she wanted to go on with
this. And she answered wordlessly, by peeling the panties down her long slim
legs.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO........
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